


As Befits a King

by ladysisyphus



Series: Over Hill and Under Hill [9]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all too much to think about, so he thought about Thorin's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Befits a King

It was all too much to think about, so he thought about Thorin's hands. Nearly abandoning the quest on the brink of its completion, leaving so many of their company behind, the dragon, the fire, the gold, the fire, seeing Lake-town burn, watching the great wyrm drop from the sky, the retaken kingdom, the fire, the _fire_ , the Arkenst--

No. No, he couldn't let his mind linger in any of those places, or he sensed he'd never get it back again. Hobbits were not meant for great contemplation; they preferred small thoughts, manageable tasks, immediate goals, practical concerns. And though dwarves were strong and resilient through fire and snow alike, arresting his fall on ancient rusted chains and gripping hot sledges had taken their toll on Thorin's palms. He had stood on the precipice with fists curled at his sides, facing Erebor (or unable to face Lake-town) as the dragon's fire raged. Now he marched through heavy, ancient halls, barking orders at dwarves who, like Bilbo himself, had not slept in a full turn of the sky.

At last, as Dori and Ori set off with their instructions as to where to direct their efforts, Bilbo grabbed Thorin's sleeve and made Thorin turn to him -- a tall order, given the sheer differences in their mass, but Bilbo could be a stubborn thing when he wanted to be. "Your hands," Bilbo said, lifting Thorin's left palm beneath the light of a brazier. The skin there was torn and cracked, and small white blisters had formed in the joints of his fingers. "You must let me tend to them or they'll only get worse."

"They'll be fine--" Thorin began, but Bilbo wrapped both his hands around Thorin's wrist, using all his might to hold him in place.

"No, they won't. Not if you don't at least ... salve them, or something." Bilbo wrinkled up his nose in a thinking frown. "Though with Óin away, I'll have to see what we've got on us. Might have to improvise."

They were in one of the high passageways now, one which had managed to stay sturdy through the dragon's wrath, and Thorin cast his gaze out over the great scattered treasure-horde beneath them. Below, Bilbo could see several of their company moving around, setting off cascades of gold coins in their search, though from this altitude they looked no larger than pill-bugs scrambling about dirt-hills on bug-business. "There will be time for--"

" _Thorin_ ," Bilbo said with a bark so stiff it actually got an echo. To think that he might have become a hobbit whose voice rang out from the rafters of stone halls. To think any of it, indeed. "If they -- what if they get so as you can't even grasp a sword? What kingly figure will you cut then?"

It wounded Bilbo deep within to appeal to Thorin's well-being via his vanity, and stung even worse when he saw the approach work. "There is--" Thorin released a deep sigh into the air, then looked back over his shoulder. "There was an apothecary not far from here."

Bilbo gave a firm nod. "Well, suppose they won't mind its being commandeered for royal purposes," he declared, and without letting go of Thorin's wrist, he set off in the indicated direction. He only looked back once, and when he did, Thorin was not looking at the path ahead of them, but at the riches beneath. The hard lines of his face had grown harder, and a light shone in his eyes Bilbo didn't like, not least because the last time he'd seen it, Thorin had been holding one of the Lake-town swords pointed at Bilbo's unprotected chest. A troubling business, to be sure.

He needed ask no further directions; a row of little warrens hewn from stone lined the corridor into which the passageway deposited them, their doors all still flung wide, and though Bilbo knew not enough runes to make out any words around them, the pungent scent of oils still lingered around the nearest one. Faced with scenes such as this, it was easy to be reminded of how swift Smaug had come, bursting not into a fortress bolstered against threats, but into a thriving city full of everyday lives. There were mercifully at this elevation no bodies left lying about; no dragon-fire had scorched walls that did not house gold, and some passage unknown to Bilbo must have let that day's merchants and buyers escape into the open air.

Truly, though, they had dropped everything and run. Items lay strewn about the footpaths: toppled baskets of goods, crates dropped and split, outer garments left where they fell, even single forsaken shoes. Rot and decay had taken anything perishable many years hence, leaving the thick air stale (and no small bit dragonish) yet not unpleasant. Through these obstacles, Bilbo led them both, on into the apothecary's shop.

As befit the great dwellings of Erebor, though the shop itself was cozy, its many shelves were stacked high with jars of ceramic and glass, their contents preserved against a calamity the bottlers had not known was approaching. A large table divided the room into two, and a long counter traced the walls. "Now you -- could you just -- just sit there." Bilbo pointed to a nearby chair, and when Thorin did not take it but instead seated himself on the edge of the table, Bilbo declared the battle sufficiently won and gave up on further direction. He would take his victories against Thorin Oakenshield's stubbornness where he could get them.

Except he wasn't speaking to Thorin Oakenshield any longer, Bilbo reflected as he sniffed a jar of liniment, trying to puzzle out its contents. Barely arm's length away from him sat the King Under the Mountain, and for certain now.

Like many Shire-folk, Bilbo had some small training in the basics of medicine, and though he'd no idea what dwarves might name such a combination, he knew the smell of comfrey and vinegar when he came upon it. Cloths beneath the counter were dusty yet not dirty, so Bilbo only shook one out before dipping it into the potent green-grey mixture. "Hands, please," he instructed, and he was glad when Thorin complied, showing his palms with no further argument. "Now, this is going to sting."

"You needn't speak to me as though I were a child with scraped knees," Thorin growled, an angry sneer curling at his lip.

They were all tired, Bilbo reminded himself. Beyond tired -- they were _exhausted_ , and they hadn't eaten much or well since departing Lake-town, and everyone was a bit crankier than usual, which would of course by all rights make Thorin a truly colossal grouch. Even so, he couldn't deny he felt a bitter prick of pleasure as he placed the soaked cloth against the abrasions on Thorin's hand and heard Thorin hiss complaint. Bilbo supposed a good healer wouldn't be smug, then remembered that he wasn't strictly a healer and went right on feeling that way.

As fortune would have it, Thorin's wounds were not as deep as they were dirty, which was a problem far more easily remedied. Bilbo's own exhaustion was such that he could not keep from thinking more about Thorin's hands than the injuries they'd sustained -- how strong and thick they were, especially compared to Bilbo's. He caught himself absently rubbing his thumb over Thorin's knuckles and told himself to stop it that instant.

Now there was another thing Bilbo couldn't let himself think about: what had transpired between them in the Lake-town shadows. His heart caught in his throat, his breath a mere flutter in his chest ... and then Thorin had changed his mind. Something, _something_ had made Thorin change his mind. And then the next day, from the moment they'd woken at the Master's house nearly to the edge of Dale, Thorin had been unable to look him in the eye. It had all been too much to hope for. It was more than he ever should have hoped for. Now if only he could make himself to stop wanting it, perhaps things would go a bit smoother.

"You think me monstrous," Thorin said, causing Bilbo nearly to drop his healing-cloth with surprise. "To stand by as Lake-town burned."

Now this had come from nowhere. "No." Bilbo shook his head, recalling all too brightly the helpless feeling of knowing what great distance lay between them and their previous night's hosts. "No, you tried very hard and put yourself at great risk to try and keep Smaug within the mountain. You meant to lure him to his death, not shoo him like a moth out a window."

"I will not have you stand in judgment over me," said Thorin, as though Bilbo had not even spoken. As he looked up, Thorin's eyes glinted with an angry fire which turned Bilbo's insides to ice. "You do not know what burdens weigh the shoulders of a king. Would you have had me risk my own on a futile errand?"

"No!" Letting go of Thorin's hand, Bilbo took a step back, and then another, feeling as he did the jolt of the counter against the small of his back. "Thorin, I swear I--"

Thorin rose in kind, pulling himself up to his full, broad-shouldered height -- which might have been less intimidating to man or elf, but which overshadowed Bilbo's own frame. "I will _not_ have you stand in judgment over me. I can see the way you look on me with anger, with pity. I do not need a self-appointed conscience. Am I not the king?" Those great, strong hands of his grabbed the sides of Bilbo's coat, and now Bilbo felt the blood run from his face as the Arkenstone, secreted in an inner pocket, jarred up against his side. "Do I not deserve this?"

"Please," whispered Bilbo, almost unaware that he was speaking, "Thorin, please don't hurt me."

The change that came over Thorin then was sudden as a thunderclap. Eyes that had been narrow, piercing, altogether suspicious opened wide at once, and Thorin drew in a deep, shuddering breath. As he let it out, he released his hold on Bilbo's coat, instead letting his hands roam Bilbo's hair and shoulders with appraising efficiency. "I would not--" he began, but the words choked in his throat, and it was a moment before he could speak again. "Are you well? Were you injured this night?"

It seemed a rather belated question, all things considered, but as a change of topic, the inquiry made Bilbo grateful. "Fine, I'm fine, just ... just fine." He tried to force a laugh, but as the terror of only seconds before had not yet subsided, it sounded more like a sob. "All parts accounted for. Nothing burned or broken off! So ... I suppose that's good."

"Very good." Thorin traced the curve of Bilbo's jaw with the backs of his knuckles, and even the pungent comfrey odor could not hide the scent of his skin so close.

The closer he came, however, the more the Arkenstone burned against Bilbo's side. He'd wanted to give it over. He'd _meant_ to give it over. The dragon's death had all but chased his bitter words from Bilbo's ears, and to the Thorin who now touched his cheek with such tender affection, Bilbo would have given everything he had and more. He wanted nothing more than to take it from his coat and press it into Thorin's healing hands and pledge his adoration and devotion, whatever cost that might bring. For Thorin, he would face any sword. Yet despite this, he could not chase from memory the knowledge that the last sword he had faced had had Thorin himself on its other side.

"It's, ah--" Bilbo cleared his throat, and Thorin retreated a hair's breadth. "Rather warm in here, don't you think?" It wasn't at all -- in fact, now that Erebor was no longer a roasting furnace, Bilbo found the whole place uncomfortably vast and chilly -- but it was the excuse he needed to slip his coat from his shoulders. Wadding it in a great, complicated bundle, and sure to cushion its greatest secret on all sides, he placed it on a bottom shelf, half-tucked behind a heavy vessel.

As he stood again, he expected to find Thorin ready again to turn his face as he had in Lake-town, to make some speech about restoring the kingdom and tending to his people and the what-not. But instead, Thorin hovered close, so Bilbo smiled and reached for Thorin's hand. "So what am I to call you now?" he asked with a smile, letting his gaze fall from Thorin's under the guise of examining his healer's work. "Are dwarf-kings 'Your Majesty' or 'Your Highness' or ... I don't know, 'Your Dwarvish Greatness'?"

"From you," said Thorin, his soft, deep voice so close and tender, "I would have my name."

Caught at a loss, Bilbo lifted his face and found there Thorin's deep gaze. They were so close now, and fear and weariness and excitement and desire mingled together into some terrible urge that left him all but paralyzed. "Thorin," Bilbo said at last, the word a talisman between them.

The spell that had kept them separate was in that moment broken; Thorin reached for Bilbo, _grabbed_ for Bilbo, carding his fingers through Bilbo's hair before knotting his hands into fists, then pressing their mouths together with near-violent force. Bilbo was caught and pressed between the shelf and Thorin's body, and he was grateful then that he'd shed his jacket, because they were so close now that Thorin would not have been able to miss the great stone's presence.

But there was little time to linger on that thought, because Thorin was kissing him, at long last, and Bilbo could do nothing but throw his arms around Thorin's neck and kiss back. The sensation of kissing someone with a beard was perhaps a bit odd, but it was _Thorin's_ beard, and Thorin's strong arms were the ones that held him fast, and Bilbo wanted nothing except as much of that as he could take. And if he could not take it himself, it seemed that it was to be given to him, as Thorin thrust his tongue into Bilbo's mouth and Bilbo felt his knees soften.

He'd had lovers before, of course, of all sorts and situations, and he'd spent many pleasant spring afternoons beneath trees, summer evenings in meadows, and winter nights tucked into friends' beds, sometimes even by threes and fours. Such encounters, however, had never seemed to him more necessary than cucumber sandwiches at a picnic or spiced mutton at a harvest banquet -- delightful additions, and enjoyable, to be sure, but all told, nothing whose absence was worth lamenting. None of that had prepared him for this surge of desire and want and sheer _need_ that drew him to Thorin's body. His prick was so hard in his trousers that he could feel his heartbeath throb in its tip, and when he pressed his hips toward Thorin's, he felt the rise of something just as stiff beneath Thorin's clothes. Yes, all this, yes.

Thorin straightened first, then leaned back, such that Bilbo -- arms locked around Thorin's neck as they were -- was lifted from the ground. He dangled there only for an instant, though, before Thorin caught him hard from underneath, holding him up. In response, Bilbo wrapped his legs around Thorin's thick waist as best he could, as though climbing a tree. His prick rubbed against Thorin's stomach, which made him groan into Thorin's mouth. In case that might cause some issue, it was better now to let Thorin know that Bilbo Baggins caught in the flame of his arousal was anything but quiet.

No complaint came. Instead, sturdy and strong, Thorin bore him as though he weighed nothing, kissing him deep; Bilbo could feel Thorin's smile every time he tightened his strong fingers around Bilbo's soft backside, causing Bilbo to gasp and writhe. He turned at last and crossed the space to the table, then let go of Bilbo with one arm, only long enough to give the table a great sweep clear. Jars and scales and dishes fell to the ground in a great shattering clatter, and Bilbo could only laugh as Thorin placed him none-too-gently on the vacated space. This was desire, then, as much Thorin's as his own.

"Do I not deserve this," Thorin growled deep in his chest, and it was not a question, so Bilbo did not answer, even though every part of him seemed to shout that no matter whether or not some metric deemed Thorin worthy of this, he could have it, every inch. He pressed his lips to Bilbo's ear, and Bilbo thought of how Thorin's beard must muffle the sound, making this even more their very own. "To have you here among my treasures. I am the king, and I will take what is mine."

" _Yes_ ," Bilbo gasped, nodding. With his legs still gripping Thorin's sides, he rose against Thorin as Thorin pressed down over him. Thorin grabbed both Bilbo's hands in one of his and slammed them back to the table's surface, trapping them in place. Bilbo's prick was straining so hard with arousal now that if something weren't to be done soon, he might not be able to wear these trousers again before a good laundering.

But Thorin already was enacting plans in that direction. Still keeping Bilbo's wrists fixed with one hand, he used the other to yank Bilbo's trousers and shortclothes down and off his legs, until Bilbo was bare from the rise of his belly to the soles of his feet. The cold was no longer a problem, not with the way his blood was coursing through his veins. He glanced down to see his prick standing straight up from his prone body, high and obvious as the sun at mid-day. He didn't know what he expected to accompany this reveal -- Thorin's soft laughter, maybe, or perhaps some witty remark about the relative sizes of hobbits -- but when he looked to Thorin's face, Bilbo saw nothing there but deep hunger, so naked and raw it was all Bilbo could do to keep from spending himself at the sight of it.

Thorin clearly had more in mind, however, and Bilbo would hold out as long as he needed so not to spoil that. "Hold here," Thorin said, giving Bilbo's wrists a squeeze before releasing them. Bilbo held his once-trapped hands steady as though Thorin had nailed them into place while Thorin stood and turned toward the counter. Panic gripped Bilbo -- was he going to go for the coat? -- but he needn't have worried; Thorin's sights were set on vials several shelves above, and he snatched one from a row. When the cork popped out, a sweet, oily scent wafted from its mouth. The liquid from inside glistened as Thorin dribbled some onto his fingertips.

A dark thought crossed Bilbo's mind: _It's a good thing I want this as much as I do, because I don't know if I could stop him if I didn't._

But he did want it, so much it made him quake to think about it. Having lovers was fine and good and companionable, but he'd never been _taken_ like this before, with such commanding presence and authority. As such, when Thorin's thick, strong fingers pressed slick yet rough inside of him, Bilbo cried out with a sound no one could have mistaken for anything but pleasure. It had been so long since someone had touched him like this, and never before had someone made him want it so. "Thorin!" he cried out, forgetting himself and bringing a hand to clasp over his mouth as his eyes shut tight. Thorin's fingers twisted inside him, filling and stretching him, causing his whole body to shake.

"I will have what is mine," Thorin said, and Bilbo did not hear the words so much as he felt Thorin's lips murmur them against the softness of his inner thigh. When Thorin's fingers withdrew not long after, Bilbo raised nether his head to look nor his voice in protest. This, this would he gladly give.

Privacy had been at a minimum on their journey, such that Bilbo did not think a single member of their company had not seen every inch of every other, himself included. Yet seeing a soft, sleeping prick hang loose as its owner bathed in a chilly stream was nothing compared the feeling of Thorin's length, hard and thick, as it pushed inside Bilbo with rapturing force. Bilbo's eyes shot wide and he grabbed for Thorin, demanding a kiss with all the strength he had.

The heavy table beneath them creaked as Thorin thrust into Bilbo again and again, but it was of sturdy dwarven craftsmanship, unlikely to falter even under circumstances as unlikely as these. Thorin had done no more than unfasten his breeches, so the rough Lake-town textiles brushed against Bilbo's body with every stroke. His breath came hot and heavy against Bilbo's mouth until they could no longer kiss and breathe and once. He then buried his face in the curve of Bilbo's neck, his hair falling in a dark curtain that all but blinded Bilbo. That was all right; Bilbo had other senses to serve him now.

When Thorin's hand slipped between their bodies to wrap around Bilbo's prick, the touch made Bilbo come with a start. Crying out echo-loud, he grabbed for Thorin's hair and back, begging him to keep stroking, keep thrusting, as Bilbo spilled his seed between them. He fell slack against the table when he was spent, gasping for air. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, but he could neither understand nor explained them, so he squeezed his eyes shut and banished them.

Once Bilbo had been granted his release, Thorin shifted his weight back onto his knees, getting his arms under Bilbo so that he did not at any point fall free of Bilbo's body. Limp and pliable, Bilbo could only gasp as Thorin drove into him even harder from this angle. Even his spent prick twitched against his belly at every thrust. Being taken like this was good, so blissfully good, that he sank into Thorin's pleasure and let the word go soft and white.

The sharp grip of Thorin's fingers against his hips brought Bilbo back to full attention, and he opened his eyes in time to see Thorin give a soundless gasp as he thrust his last few times into Bilbo's body. Indeed, he was kingly like this almost more so than anywhere else, and if others were to disagree with Bilbo on this matter, then it was no matter, for he was right and they were wrong. But more than that, he was beautiful, even if Bilbo did not know whether or not Thorin would appreciate his saying so. That was all right; Bilbo could keep another secret.

When Thorin at last slid his own prick from Bilbo's body and fell forward, it was into Bilbo's waiting arms, and Bilbo kissed him with all the love he had in him. Nothing of this journey had been easy, and it had taken its toll from them with every step. Yet it was over now. The dragon was dead, Erebor reclaimed, and his brother and the others would join them any day now, Glóin had said optimistically, and just see if they didn't! Dark fancies of fire and stones could be forgotten, replaced with good food and good sleep -- and more of this, if Thorin was willing, because Bilbo surely was.

The wooden table was uncomfortable beneath his shoulders, and having a dwarf's whole weight pressing atop him was no great pleasure for a hobbit (to say nothing of his wet belly or sodden backside), but Bilbo felt a great sense of contentment nonetheless. He stroked Thorin's hair until he found a beaded braid, which he proceeded to tug until he saw Thorin grin. "Perhaps," Thorin said in a low voice, "it would not be such a bad thing to have you as my conscience."

"Oh, is this what a conscience does, now?" Bilbo laughed and tugged again. "Because if so, I'm quite keen on the job."

"Among other things," Thorin answered with a brief kiss.

To Bilbo's great dismay, however, Thorin then began to roll away -- not just off Bilbo, which he appreciated, but off the table entirely, which he didn't as much. As covering himself was a lost cause, seeing as how his pants were somewhere lost to the floor, Bilbo just sat upright, letting his legs dangle over the side. "What's the hurry?" he asked, laughing through the question as though it were a funny joke, funny to everyone, especially him.

Grabbing a clean towel, Thorin wiped his fingers clean, then re-applied a dash of the comfrey salve Bilbo had used on him earlier. "There is work yet to be done, Master Burglar."

Something about the way his title spilled from Thorin's lips set Bilbo on edge. "Yes, but, can't--" Bilbo looked down at his feet, crossing and uncrossing his toes, a nervous gesture his mother had never quite coaxed out of him. "Can't we have a rest? I mean -- that is, if the Arkenstone is down there--"

"It is," said Thorin, his voice a low warning as he refastened his breeches.

"All right, _as_ it's down there, it's surely not going to get any lost-er if we take our time with it. Right?"

Thorin turned back to Bilbo, and the hard set of his jaw made Bilbo's heart sink. Already he was gazing out the door of the apothecary, toward the unseen riches that lay in the great halls below. "A dragon's death is no small matter. News will travel to the ends of the earth that the calamity has passed and claim may be once more made upon the mountain. And if I have no claim as king, what good will all our triumphs bring us then?"

"Yes, but--" As he scrambled for something, anything to say, Bilbo felt the sweat of their joined bodies begin to chill on his skin. "Well, they won't be here before we've at least had a good night's rest, will them?"

"You may rest safe here," said Thorin, as magnanimous as if he'd just unlocked for Bilbo their finest suite of guest quarters. He approached Bilbo again, drawing Bilbo's curls back from his face -- but the look Thorin gave him was an odd one. It was a silly thing to think, but Bilbo for a moment wondered he hadn't somehow slipped on the magic ring unnoticed, leaving only a likeness of himself, but fashioned from gold, in his place. "I would let no harm come to you within these walls."

As sweet a sentiment as it was, Bilbo did not find Thorin's words banished his uneasiness. "Thorin--"

"When you wake, come to me." Thorin strode toward the apothecary's door as he spoke, a smile curling at his lips as he glanced back over his shoulder. "There are great beds deep in the king's chambers, ones I would very much like to show you."

Bilbo felt the tips of his ears pinken at the thought and cursed himself for being so easily swayed from his misgivings by the thought of being held in Thorin's arms again. Caught by this conflict, he could not find the words to make Thorin stay, not even after the last echoes of his heavy boots had faded. He did not know if such words were to be had at all.

At last alone, he hopped off the table and cleaned himself, then retrieved and re-donned his trousers and coat. He had no wish to stretch out along that flat, heavy expanse again, but several burlap sacks of what might once have been lavender lay piled in a corner, and he burrowed into them, intending to have himself a good cry -- over nothing and everything at once, and if he wanted to pretend he wasn't weeping about one thing, well, he had several other causes to take its place. But though he was as weary as he could ever recall being in his life, he neither slept nor cried, lying instead for some time with his eyes wide open in the dark, empty corner of the long-empty kingdom, the King's Jewel pressed against his side, the king himself aready far away.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what really started bugging me while I was writing this? Light sources. Where on earth does all that light in Erebor come from? Do they have bioluminescent gold or something? I was going to write in something about a torch Bilbo was carrying around, but then I was like, fuck it, if Peter Jackson doesn't have to deal with it, I don't either.
> 
> Anyway, if you're here for the boning, you've got boning, and if you're here for the angst, you've got angst! You're welcome.
> 
> Let's just all assume he's not fingering Bilbo with the parts of his hands with open wounds on them. Keep your sex safe, kiddos!
> 
> Originally posted at <http://ladysisyphus.livejournal.com/880464.html>


End file.
